


Painted Lady

by januarywren



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sansa Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambition, BAMF Margaery Tyrell, BAMF Sansa Stark, Breastfeeding, Breeding, Come Eating, Comeplay, Courtship, Crack Treated Seriously, Creepy Petyr Baelish, Cunnilingus, Dom Sansa Stark, Domestic Bliss, Dubious Morality, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femslash, Girl Penis, Godswood, Godswood Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Impregnation, Independent North (ASoIaF), Intrigue, Knotting, Lactation Kink, Lesbian Margaery Tyrell, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Married Sex, Master/Pet, Mates, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Multiple Orgasms, Nesting, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Margaery Tyrell, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, POV Margaery Tyrell, POV Sansa Stark, Penis In Vagina Sex, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Politics, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Queen in the North, References to Knotting, Romance, Same-Sex Marriage, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa Stark-centric, Secret Marriage, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Sub Margaery Tyrell, True Mates, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: “By the gods, Sansa,” Margaery keened, “Please – “She felt her lover smirk, as she drew her tongue further between her dripping folds. She was spread across the fur laden bed, with her thighs parted and her lover between them. Sansa taunted and teased her with her tongue, as she alternated between long, languid strokes and short, gentle licks that made her want to scream from pleasure.And when her lover thrust one, single digit inside her -Margaery bucked her hips in response, groaning as Sansa kept her pressed against the bed. It was more than she could take, more than she had ever dreamed of –“Sansa!”Margaery cried as slick gushed from her cunt, warm and glistening. Ignoring her cries Sansa pleasured her still, thrusting another finger inside her, and curling it against her folds. The noise of her fingers thrusting in and out of her cunt was more than she could take, her cheeks flaring pink. Margaery often thought if one could die of pleasure, she would have died a thousand times by then...Alpha/Omega AU | Urged by her court, Queen in the North takes a certain omega as her lover.
Relationships: Sansa Stark & Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 69
Kudos: 484





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petitebegonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitebegonia/gifts), [Kendrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/gifts), [Revans_Mask](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revans_Mask/gifts), [IHeartBadGuys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHeartBadGuys/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've toyed with writing femslash for awhile now, and struggled to overcome my hesitant about it. It was difficult for me to imagine writing, let alone posting my work on ao3 if it was femslash - 
> 
> (Que to writing something incredibly filthy/NSFW...) 
> 
> Kendrene and Revans_Mask have incredible Margaery/Sansa stories, ones that I simply can't get enough of! Their work has passion and tenderness, the same as it never seems out of character, nor anything but wonderful. 💖 Reading their work inspired me to push my nerves aside, and write my own take on Margaery/Sansa, and I'm thankful for them! 
> 
> Also thank you to my friend, PetiteBegonia for always being so sweet, and lovely to chat with on Tumblr. My days are always better when I chat with you, and there's no one who has a lovelier aesthetic. :) 
> 
> I enjoyed working on 'Painted Lady,' immensely, and hope that you all enjoy reading it, too! I'm open to adding other chapters, if you let me know what you'd like to see! 🔥💖

“By the gods, Sansa,” Margaery keened, “Please – “

She felt her lover smirk, as she drew her tongue further between her dripping folds. She was spread across the fur laden bed, with her thighs parted and her lover between them. Sansa taunted and teased her with her tongue, as she alternated between long, languid strokes and short, gentle licks that made her want to scream from pleasure.

And when her lover thrust one, single digit inside her -

Margaery bucked her hips in response, groaning as Sansa kept her pressed against the bed. It was more than she could take, more than she had ever dreamed of –

“Sansa!”

Margaery cried as slick gushed from her cunt, warm and glistening. Ignoring her cries Sansa pleasured her still, thrusting another finger inside her, and curling it against her folds. The noise of her fingers thrusting in and out of her cunt was more than she could take, her cheeks flaring pink. Margaery often thought if one could die of pleasure, she would have died a thousand times by then.

She writhed against the covers, the thick furs softly caressing her skin. There wasn't another soul allowed in their chambers, as Sansa made clear; Margaery couldn't help but revel in her lover's possessiveness toward her, the likes of which she had never known, or felt in turn before. She hadn't known what to expect when she was brought before the Queen in the North, with a chain around her neck, and her nude form exposed beneath her thin cloak. Sansa had risen from her throne and gods –

Margaery had never seen a more beautiful soul.

Courtesies had fled from her lips, as she gazed up at her, and she found she could only whisper, “ _Alpha_ ,”. Her instincts had urged her to shift to all fours, with slick running down her thighs, and an ache in her soul to be bred. “I…”

_I want you_ –

The throne room had felt too crowded and too quiet, as the Queen’s attention focused solely on her. “Please,” she’d whispered, her dark eyes meeting Tully blue. There was little space between them as Sansa came forward, tugging her to her feet.

And then they were alone, as the Queen in the North led her to her private chambers.

It was there that they fucked for hours after just meeting. The sounds of their gasps and their moans filtered throughout Winterfell, as Margaery learned what it meant to be Sansa’s, and Sansa’s alone. By the time they were finished, her slim frame was covered in love marks, and cum; for Sansa held little back from her. Margaery had looked up at her in wonder, feeling boneless and sated.

" _Help me walk...please, your Grace_?" she'd asked, before giggling as if she were a girl once more.

And Sansa?

She smiled then, as lovely as the morning sun. She'd swept her into her arms, and introduced her to the heated springs, where she knotted her once more. There was no space between them, as they lay chest to chest, and temple to temple, with her queen's arms wrapped around her waist. Margaery counted the freckles that were spread across the woman's nose, as she kissed each and every one. 

“ _Forgive me_ ,” Sansa had whispered, “ _You’re a revelation, omega_.”

“ _As are you, your Grace_ ,” Margaery had replied, finding she meant every word. Resting her forehead against her lover’s, they slowly kissed one another, before their tongues entangled. They were both sated and whole, as they slowly explored the other; with Sansa’s knot keeping them close together.

(Margaery was ruefully surprised when she had her moon’s blood, soon after Littlefinger left Winterfell…)

Breeding was what she was meant for, as every omega knew, though Margaery thought she could manage an alpha. They were so _silly_ compared to omegas, as she’d learned under Littlefinger’s tutelage. They thought of little more than their ruts and creating heirs, and if an omega gave them what they wanted, they could wrap them around their finger before the alpha was even aware. After all, betas could never compare to omegas as girls like Margaery could take a knot and still _beg_ for more –

And _enjoy_ it. 

Nor was it her fault that simpering girls like Jeyne or Daenerys had been left behind when the choice for who Littlefinger would offer to the Queen in the North came. Gossip had poured into the Vale only weeks before, of Sansa Stark taking her ruts alone, and how her council was desperate for her to mate with an omega, or at the very least, fuck and breed one.

“ _You’ll please the Queen, won’t you, darling_? _Unless you’d prefer the Hardyng boy_ …” Littlefinger had teased Margaery, as if she were new to the ways of alphas. She knew how to flutter her eyelashes and spread her legs, with her fingers stroking her glistening clit, a picture that few could resist. She remembered every lesson that Littlefinger and his girls had taught her, all while knowing she was meant for something, and someone more.

Margaery wanted little to do with being offered to Harry Hardyng, an alpha who was said to have sired bastards throughout the Vale. He’d taken none as his mate, intent on spreading his seed as far as he could – no, Margaery knew, she was meant for more than the likes of him.

She moaned and arched her back, desperate to feel _more_.

It was too much and not enough, Margaery thought, as her toes curled, and she felt flares of ecstasy. She wanted everything that Sansa could give her, and more. She wanted her fingers and her tongue, and her cock that would pump seed inside of her, until her lover’s knot swelled, binding them together –

_Forever, and ever_.

She peaked beneath her Queen’s attentions, coming undone with her name on her lips. As Sansa withdrew from her fingers and her greedy mouth from her cunt, slick gushed forward, staining the furs with her essence. “Beautiful,” Sansa murmured, her tone wistful.

Even there, in the privacy of their chambers, there was a feeling of sorrow that never lifted from her Queen. Margaery kept her lips still, knowing better than to frown. She had to be the best of her kind, sweet and passive, yet willing to lower herself to all fours when an alpha demanded. Littlefinger had taught her well, grooming her to be a part of his establishment just after she had flowered. " _Make your lover forget everything, outside of you_ ,” he’d told her, “ _and you’ll never lose them, sweetling_.”

It was impossible, of course, even for someone with her beauty, Margaery knew. Sansa’s history was well known, as enough bards sang her life’s story throughout every tavern in Westeros. She was a lady at three and betrothed to Prince Joffrey at three and ten. With the execution of her father, and the subsequent loss of her family, the betrothal was broken, and she remained at King’s Landing for several years.

It was rumored that the Queen Mother had taken her maidenhead herself, while others whispered it was the Hound, a fearsome and scarred member of the King’s guard. Female alphas were an uncommon delight, one that appealed to many. Regardless, Sansa had climbed her way from the bottom up; forming alliances and hiding her sharp claws, until the North came to her aid. They would have no queen but Sansa, and with support of the Ironborn, the Lannisters were forced to release her. 

She’d ruled the North alone, coaxing the northern lords to eat from the palm of her hand, and bend to her will. She was the prettiest creature that Margaery had ever seen, and she wanted to be her everything. Her mate, her consort, and the mother of her pups –

“Take me,” Margaery purred, using the same sweet, gentle tone that she knew Sansa adored. Her lover was covered in scars, each with their own story, that Sansa had yet to tell her. Yet as Sansa moved to cover her naked frame with her own, Margaery peppered kisses across her cheeks, and the slope of her jaw, and wound her arms around her waist, as if she were perfect, and whole. “Please, my love – “

Sansa set a brutal pace as she snapped her hips against hers. The feel of her cock made Margaery whimper, as she felt her body respond in turn. She often burned with a violent need for her queen and found it a challenge to think of little else but bedding her. There were always courtiers to charm and please, as Margaery drew them to her side. She sewed with Sansa's ladies in waiting, remembering the names and name days of their children, and never failed to have a kind word for any that came to her.

As word spread of the Queen keeping her at her side, and in her bed, Margaery relished at the interest, and attention given to her; though she knew that everyone was an ally and a friend, the same as they were a rival, who would revel at her downfall. She had to be everything that Sansa wanted, and everything that she needed, while making her position well-known to the court, if she wanted anything at all, from the Queen in the North and the court at Winterfell.

Nothing would ever be enough if she didn’t have it all.

Margaery wrapped her legs around Sansa’s lower back and rocked her hips against her, without pause. Sansa moaned at the change in angle, her cock dipping further inside her lover than before. “D-Do you think,” Sansa swallowed thickly, as she felt her lover’s teeth graze dangerously close to her mating gland. It was incredibly sensitive, and she felt ecstasy flare within her, “want this?”

_Do you want me_?

“Always,” Margaery whispered, the truth spilling from her, “I’ll always want you, your Grace.”

She often teased Sansa with the use of her title, as she knew the woman liked the sound of it on her lips. She was allowed the use of her name as well, and Margaery often chanted it when her lover buried her face between her legs. There were many sides to the Queen in the North, yet the side she showed Margaery made her feel cherished, and safe – safer than she had ever been before.

Some, like Littlefinger, or her grandmother would call her a fool.

No one could protect anyone, not without receiving something in turn. They were all players in the game, one that was unceasing, and uncaring of their thoughts and their feelings. To find safety, true safety, in the game of thrones required more than falling for a pretty face and declarations of love.

“ _Sansa is the last of the Starks_ ,” Littlefinger had whispered in her ear, shortly before he presented her to the court, as if she needed his coaching. She knew that she had one chance to make an impression, one chance for her life to change. “ _She wishes for more than an heir…she craves a family, sweetling, one that only an omega may give her_. _She wants to see the Starks live again, with a bundle of children behind Winterfell’s walls, and their mother – her true, and only love, in her bed_.”

It was a fanciful dream that Margaery had smirked at –

(Only she yearned for it now, in a thousand different ways that she hadn’t before.)

Margaery squealed as Sansa withdrew from her, moving her instead to her hands and her knees. She wiggled her hips in response, breathless as Sansa slid her cock inside her once more. Her knot was beginning to swell, just enough to make Margaery feel pleasure and pain.

Her arms folded beneath her as she fell forward, with Sansa rocking her hips against hers. She was merciless and cruel, as Margaery felt heat flare inside her once more. It was more than she could take, when Sansa’s hands cupped her breasts, her fingers pinching and rolling her nipples. Her queen knew how to overwhelm her with pleasure, and she faltered against the bed. 

She couldn't take more, she couldn't - 

(She could, Sansa always knew that she could.)

“S-Sansa,” Margaery keened, her eyes fluttering closed.

She saw her dream then, one that had made itself known the first time she'd laid with Sansa and felt her knot swell within her. Sansa was lonely, lonelier than anyone knew, and Margaery recognized that as the key to her survival.

There was one way to her heart, one way that she would forever stay at Sansa's side. If the queen bred her, she wouldn't put her aside. She would mate her and fuck her as often as they both wished her place undisputed by the court, and the queen alike. It was what Littlefinger hinted at, and Margaery knew was true, for Sansa would never set the mother of a Stark aside. Nor would she look for another to mate with, nor lay with at all, for Margaery would please her as no one else could.

“It’s t-too much – “

Sansa nuzzled her face against her shoulder, drawing her tongue against her skin. “Is it?” she teased, as if she were a girl again, one with tender hope and the sweetest of dreams. Burying herself inside Margaery made her feel free, more so than she had ever been before. Her hand drifted down from her lover’s breast, to cup her sex instead, where they were connected. “I thought you could take all that I had to give you.”

“Always,” Margaery replied, her words ending on a strangled moan. The air was thick with the scent of their arousal, and the slick that was painted across her thighs, and the furs beneath them. Margaery ached for her breasts to feel heavy with milk, and for her stomach to have a gentle curve, one that would secure her place and her safety.

There was another thought too, one that she would never voice aloud, for she wasn't a complete fool. There were times when she cherished the feel of Sansa wrapped around her, keeping her safe and secure, as if she truly could keep the world away. It was Sansa that she thought of when the sun rose, the same as she thought of her when the sunset and they were able to fuck in her chambers. Each time that Sansa had her, Margaery felt her hope grow; her hope for a place beside Sansa, one where she would love, and be loved in turn.

"Good girl," Sansa murmured, as she began to pant with every thrust. Her knot was swelling uncomfortably then, as her cock ached for release. She wanted to flood her lover with her seed and feel as it soaked her cunt, before taking root –

Sansa gave a strangled cry as her release found her then, with cum squirting in thick rivets from her tip. “My sweet, wonderful girl,” she repeated, burying her face against her shoulder. It was all she could do to not sink her teeth into her omega’s mating gland, her instincts screaming for her to do so.

She wanted to protect her omega from the world around them, and spoil her with anything and everything she could ever ask for. Sansa remembered the example her father had set, as he gave her mother thick furs and the finest silks to build a nest with, alongside an ever-roaring fire in their rooms. Her father had often set aside the most tender of cuts of meat for his mate, as well as securing glass for the gardens she wanted to build, and he sent men abroad to trade for the seeds that she needed. Her parents had made their way in the world together and were unfaltering in the face of a long and harsh winter. They had feared only for their people and always acted for the sake of Winterfell.

It was a dream that Sansa had long nourished, as she sought to replicate the relationship her parents had once had. Only death had parted them, and the ghost of each lived on throughout Winterfell. It was her father's voice that Sansa heard when she considered offers of a partner from across the sea or one from the South – how could she lay with someone she had never seen, nor talked to? How could she offer her undying loyalty, and her praise to one, if she only valued what lay between their legs? She had little interest in pursuing Lyanna Mormont, who was a child still, or Alys Karstark.

Sansa remembered all too well the feeling of disgust when Cersei had praised her for her cock, and her talented mouth, as if that would draw them closer to one another. Instead, it made Sansa ache to scrub her skin clean from a touch that she had never wanted, nor asked for. It was different with Margaery, ever since the first time they had laid together –

Everything was.

She was violently aware of Margaery, regardless of where she was in Winterfell. Sansa wanted to have her at her side and in her bed. The dark-haired omega was more than she could have ever imagined, as she pleased and delighted her, with her playful spirit and unyielding obedience. Sansa knew that her lover was influencing the court in favor of a match between them and objected little to it.

There was no one that she wanted more than Margaery, even with the memory of laying with Cersei, and a childhood friend, Beth, for a time. When Sansa dreamed, she found her dreams filled of roses blooming regardless of the season, and a wolf led by a leash crafted from them.

It had inspired her gift for Margaery, a mark of Sansa's ownership, and her love: a golden collar that was stamped with the Stark emblem. Her lover wore it daily, and there were times when Sansa amused herself at the thought of attaching it to a chain and leading her lover through Winterfell's halls – a dream that she would never make reality though she pretended as such during council meetings when her advisors feuded with one another.

She was a wolf, the same as all the Starks were, and there were times when her possessive nature showed. It was then that she would have Margaery on her hands and her knees, as she took her like a bitch in heat, while she howled with pleasure. She left hickeys across her skin and her seed between her thighs, while other times she took Margaery slowly, lavishing every inch of her with attention, until she begged her for release…

And in the quiet, tender moments when they lay in each other's arms, they shared their hopes and their dreams, and their thoughts with one another.

“ _I hate him - Littlefinger,”_ Margaery had whispered to her, several weeks after residing in her bed. “ _He thought that you would value me only for my womb, and I…"_

“ _I want to be more than that, to you_.”

Sansa had spent hours proving her devotion to her, in words and in deed. She adored her lover’s slim frame, and the delicate curve of her breasts, as well as the pink blush that would stretch from her cheeks to her neck. More than her body, Sansa loved her for her soul, and the realistic, yet amusing route her thoughts often took. There was no one like Margaery, regardless of their designation, nor would there ever be.

“ _You mean the world to me, Margaery_.”

She remembered her days at King's Landing all too well when she was dismissed and ignored and tortured at every turn. Her name had no value and her designation even less, no matter the pretty lies Cersei had taunted her with.

No, Sansa knew all too well what it was like to have little value in the eyes of the world. Cersei and Petyr and many throughout Westeros saw only what they wanted to, and it came of little surprise to her. Margaery was worth more to her than she would say, as she had little fear of her touch, instead, welcoming it.

Desiring it, even.

Sansa knew that her court was eager to see her mate and produce offspring, with the threat of winter looming. She knew that she should choose her mate from a Northern family, one with a history of loyalty to the Starks, and with riches to provide. There was much to be gained from a trade agreement, one that would be favorable with the promise of a betrothal, yet Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care.

It was Margaery that she wanted to fuck and breed-

And love, in ways that the gods never could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.carrd.co/ 🌹
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by IHeartBadGuys and OperaPhantom95! You both were so helpful and helped me enormously with this piece, thank you! I appreciate your support, especially with a piece like this..I had a lot of uncertainty about writing this, and I'm very happy with how it turned out. 🦝🖤


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, this chapter is filled with: breeding kink, lactation/nursing kink, unrepentant alpha/omega dynamics, and filthy smut...click off now, or scroll down and enjoy... (18+ please!) 🔥💖
> 
> I was really surprised and flattered by the comments this story has received - I've wanted to write and upload femslash for you guys to read, and you were all so sweet about it! I feel silly for being so nervous about it in the first place. 
> 
> A huge thank you to anyone reading this, or any of my work. You're all so, so supportive and kind. Thank you! 🙌💖

“You’re _incorrigible_ , your Grace,” Margaery murmured, her delighted tone belying her words.

The heady, musky scent of sex hung in the air, and if anyone had entered the royal chambers, they would have instinctively known what their queen and her lover had done. Their arms twined around one another, and Margaery whined as Sansa slipped out of her dripping cunt.

Despite teasing her queen for her attentiveness, Margaery felt hornier than she ever had before, especially with Sansa hardly leaving her alone. Her lover had taken to feeding her by hand, as she straddled her lap, watching as she nibbled at lemon cakes and roasted nuts, as well as bits of cheese and the roasted vegetables that northerners favored.

There were times too when Margaery dripped with slick and cum and was too weak to walk when Sansa washed between her legs and dragged the cloth over her neck and her breasts, as gentle as any lover could be. She was tender enough to make Margaery cry, as she found her tears spilling, and her lip often wobbling. There had never been another like Sansa, and Margaery found that she wanted to please her in turn, often waking her by licking at her cock as a kitten would cream, alongside calling her from fraught council meetings, in order to nurse. And Sansa, her alpha, her queen, came when she called, a right that Margaery would never abuse.

She couldn't, even if she'd wanted to. 

She felt her heart swell when she looked at her lover, or saw the gleam of her fire-kissed hair. She saw Sansa as no one else did, the same as the reverse was true enough. 

The intimacy between them was more than Margaery had ever imagined, and she knew that her lover agreed. Sansa carried her too when she needed to make water; both blushing when her seed dripped from inside her. Other times Margaery would have her lover prop pillows beneath her legs while keeping her hips flat to keep her seed inside her. There was little privacy between them, as they reveled in one another, with a fierce desire that none would understand. 

“And you’re irresistible,” Sansa replied, nuzzling her face against her omega’s chest.

Sunlight streamed through the windows and sounds, emanated from the courtyard below. There was a constant hum of activity surrounding Winterfell, as craftsmen set to make much-needed repairs, traders arrived by the gate bearing trinkets and treasures from far off places, and soldiers and noblemen alike hurried from one place to another. Winter had slowly loosened its hold on the North, and Winterfell came alive because of it; despite the flurry of snow, and the howl of the wind, the last mark of the cold season.

And with it came change as few could guess, with their alpha queen content to lay abed, with her ripening omega beside her. Sansa found that she could hardly stand to be away from her lover, despite having Brienne keeping watch outside of their chambers, and the secret corridor that led from their chamber to countless rooms throughout the keep. Sansa found little ease when she wasn’t at her lover’s side, especially since Margaery was now with child.

_(“I have a surprise for you, your Grace,” Margaery whispered, as her hand slipped between Sansa's thighs. She knew how to please her like no other could, her fingers stroking her auburn curls, and her hardening shaft._

_“Ah – “_

_Sansa nipped at her lips, before soothing the sting with her tongue. “Tell me, sweetheart, please -”_

_And no matter how many times Margaery had rehearsed the words before, she felt her heart skip still. “Have you noticed my scent has changed, my love?” and at Sansa’s startled expression, Margaery giggled, as gentle and sweet as she never had before. “I’m pregnant, your Grace.”)_

Margaery wore pregnancy as few could, with her cheeks flushed pink, and her gowns made to accentuate her softening curves. She preened when she took her nightly walks with Sansa, feeling the eyes of the court drawn to her. She knew there were other alphas besides Sansa, as well as betas that could smell Sansa’s claim upon her, as well as the milk that made her breasts swell and her cleavage deepen, far more than it ever had before. She knew too, that for as many lords that disregarded and disliked her presence at Winterfell, her fertility was a boon in her favor.

If Sansa took another omega as her mate, regardless of their noble bloodline, it would take months or even years for them to provide her with an heir. Every day that passed with Sansa unmated and alone increased the risk that something could happen, and the northern throne would be left without issue. Margaery knew the child inside her was her protection – the lords would never dare to interfere with her, not while she held the queen's favor, as well as her issue.

And so, Margaery flaunted her pregnancy and her status as the queen's broodmare. She allowed the queen's maids to see her lounge in thin nightgowns, that displayed her thickening form, as well as the hickeys that littered her skin. The Queen adored her, cherished her even, as she bathed her by hand and brought her treats from the visitors that traveled from Dorne, bearing lemons and wine, and trinkets never found in the North. Her pregnancy was no whore’s trick, with a pillow stuffed beneath her gown, nor did she add herbs to her tea that would make her scent change, and her breasts laden with milk.

She saw the Maester as well, a kindly man named Sam, who watched over her as loyally as he would the queen. Margaery teased and taunted and made his head spin, and she knew that he repeated her bliss to more than one courtier. She would have her place at Sansa’s side, as her consort, her mate, her love, and she would gamble for nothing less.

As her old gowns grew tight and the hems became frayed, Margaery called for the seamstresses and spent hours sketching designs with them. She often wore pastels that flattered the darker colors the queen wore, and she often had the bodices embroidered roses, and hares; for what did a wolf love more, than to catch a hare between its jaws?

It was a message that Sansa noticed, and commented upon; that had led to them fucking in the throne room, with Margaery on all fours, and Sansa grasping her ass while taking her as roughly as she could. The fact that the smell of sex lingered in the air when Sansa held court after had aroused them enormously, regardless of how the lords felt. 

There were other features to the gowns that Margaery designed as well, with matching stockings and furs to match. Her gowns laced in the front; a flattering design that Margaery had personally chosen, for more than one reason.

In the privacy of their rooms, Margaery often held her lover as she did then, with her gown unlaced and her breasts bared to the chilly air. Her fingers carded through her lover’s thick braids, as she encouraged her to suckle from her. " _Everything I am and everything I have is yours, my love_ ," Margaery urged her sweet alpha. The sight often took her breath away, her lover nursing from her as if she were her own.

The intimacy of it was more than they had ever known before, for all that Margaery had learned from the brothel she was raised in, where there were whores of every kind and nature. Some took moon tea until their courses were nothing but a dim memory, while others fell pregnant during their heats, or because their client wished for a bastard (and paid Littlefinger handsomely for it).

As sweet and lithe as Margaery was, she had drunk from nursing omegas before, as they stroked her shoulder and played with her breasts or scissored their dripping cunt against her own as if she could satisfy the ache inside them. She vividly remembered having to cherish the bud between their legs, as they drew her mouth to their cunt, and she lapped at their folds and swallowed their slick. She had to please them when no one else could, or would, and she often found herself delirious with desire, with little relief to be found.

Some betas allowed themselves to be ridden, but their cocks were never the same as an alpha’s; able to reach the place inside her that she couldn’t with her fingers while pumping her full of their seed. Her frustrations were never voiced aloud, for Margaery knew better. Littlefinger listened and watched every one of _his_ girls and _his_ boys, and he would never indulge one of their whims, without making himself a fortune in the process. The situation made her pace the length of the brothel, overwhelmed as it was with the scents of slick and musk, and filled with whimpers and needy cries. There was nothing she could do, except survive.

It was often more than she could take, as she found her body yearning for more than another woman's fingers or their tongue, as she craved a knot and an alpha's mark upon her. No one could touch her then, no matter how much they wanted her. She wanted to be more than the whores around her, the ones that were used and left behind, with their babes taken from them. Littlefinger ran brothels, not orphanages, and if the lord in question refused to take care of the bastard, they were sent elsewhere.

And Sansa, for all her time in King's Landing, and her lessons from Cersei could hardly remember the last time that someone freely held her in their arms. There was always a price, as others demanded a piece of her heart, her soul, and her ties to the North.

The last was all that Sansa had left, and she had clung to it as fiercely as the Sand Snakes clung to their fragile power in Dorne. She would never share her throne with anyone, the same as she wouldn’t abandon the North. They had to accept her as she was, something that was as impossible as her bedding Lyanna Mormont, or Cersei Lannister.

“This is all that I want,” Sansa whispered, as her hand caressed her omega’s breast. Her thumb rolled across her swollen nipple, and she watched as her lover shivered in response. Margaery was far more sensitive than before; kisses along her collarbone and fingers crooked inside her cunt, enough to make her come. Yet this was their favored way to fuck, as Sansa drank from her breast, while Margaery held her close.

It was a ritual between them, one that they adored far more than they would admit. Margaery would whimper and ken while her lover drank from her, nursing from her breast as if she were her everything; her child, her mate, and her lover, all at once. It was unlike anything that her alpha had imagined, the same as it was something Margaery never thought she would crave.

And Sansa, sweet and earnest Sansa, would relax in her arms as she never had before. Her eyes would never leave hers as she drank from her, her hand caressing her cheek or her breast. She would forget everything that came with the world outside their chamber door; the pressing northern lords, the need to keep her people safe and see them protected and fed and treated as they should.

She _could_ bear it, she _would_ bear it, as every Stark before her could.

Yet Sansa knew that she needed the sanctuary she found in her omega’s arms as well, for she was only herself when she was with her. She was a girl with stars in her eyes, and a woman with dreams and desires of her own, wrapped into one; instead of a queen carved from stone, and painted in the dark colors of the North.

Margaery expected nothing from her that she couldn’t give, as her omega sought her thoughts, her attention, her time – and gods, they were insatiable for one another. It was how things began between them, it was how things would always be – and it was how their most private of moments started when Margaery began to stain her silk chemises with milk.

( _“I should practice breastfeeding, shouldn’t I?” Margaery had teased when she first suggested the idea; noting her lover’s hesitation, tinged as it was with desire, “Before our babe arrives.”_

_Sansa tilted her head to the side, with her eyes widening. It wasn’t often that her omega surprised her, not after the dozens upon dozens of nights that she spent in her bed._

_"You wouldn't prefer to use a wet nurse, after the birth?"_

_"No," Margaery replied, "I know it's improper but I…I find myself loathing the idea of someone else tending to our babe," her fingers had twisted in her gown until Sansa covered them with her own. Sansa never wore rings, not as Littlefinger or Cersei had, instead keeping her long fingers bare._

_"I…understand. My mother never used a wet nurse until she had Rickon and laid abed for weeks after with a fever." Sansa offered._

_Margaery kissed her lover then, knowing how it painted her to speak of her family. Sansa had acted as the last of the Starks for most of her womanhood, something that wouldn’t change until their child emerged. In a letter that Sansa would never see, one that had been folded and refolded endlessly, Littlefinger had written exactly what Margaery needed to know._

_‘Catelyn never relied upon a wet nurse, nor did she allow her babes to be made into adults before their time, and Ned adored her for it, as well as the North. The northern families are always looking for the Mother, for all of their savage ways and overgrown trees, sweetling._ ’)

Teasingly, Sansa ran her tongue across her lover’s dark nipple before she eased it into her mouth. She was careful not to scrape her teeth against the soft peak, instead only using her warm, greedy tongue, as she urged milk to trickle into her mouth. Margaery sighed in response, her eyes fluttering closed, as she felt rivets of pleasure course through her.

Whoever believed that pregnant women shouldn't be touched were _fools_ , Margaery thought, absolute fools. 

Pregnancy had begun to change her body in the most appealing of ways, as her chest became heavy with milk, and her body became soft and yielding beneath her lover’s touch. It was rare that a night passed when Sansa didn’t have her cock buried inside her omega’s cunt, and rarer still that she didn’t knot her too, though she was already ripe with child.

They could dream and they could pretend that Sansa could endlessly breed her until she was always heavy with child, and the musky scent of her milk clung to her. She would be the Mother while Sansa was the Maiden turned Stranger, the one that the North turned to in the darkest times, while they filled Winterfell with their pups.

Margaery couldn't help but whimper at the dream, with slick running down her thighs, and an urge to hold her lover against her breast, never letting her go. Nor was she afraid to kiss her temple and her cheeks, and the tip of her nose, before pressing her lips against hers afterward. Margaery had tasted her slick before, the same she tasted her breast milk. 

She never felt dirty when she was with Sansa.

She was more than a whore, instead, the pinnacle of everything an omega could be. She could have her queen’s children while whispering into her ear, as she continued to gain influence throughout the northern court. She was used to the games the courtiers played, as gossip spread quickly, and every family harbored their own hopes, and dreams, and political agendas.

It was a world rife with intrigue and whispers, the same that Margaery had grown up in when she lived in the brothel. Every girl and every boy there knew their protection – their power – arose from the secrets they knew, and the influence they could wield.

Even as a child, Margaery had quickly learned what could happen when a girl pleased Littlefinger and secured a powerful client. She would be courted and feted and treated better than the rest of them who fought over scraps of silk and clients who weren't wracked with venereal disease or fetishes that made even the most experienced whores' shudder. Nor was it enough to hold a client, even several client's favors, as the girls relied on befriending one another, and using whomever they could. It was their way of life, and for many, like Margaery, the only one they had ever known.

The North and its lords weren’t any different, no matter how much they pretended they weren’t, Margaery thought. They filled the court with their friends and their allies and circled around the Queen in hopes of rising farther still, and seeing their enemies fall. Their customs were strange and their weather barbaric, though Margaery found she could never complain when Sansa had her sit in her lap, with her cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and her hand resting on the curve of her stomach. They wanted to flaunt their relationship before the court, as if they were mates in truth, and could never be parted –

They craved, and they wanted their dream to come true.

It was a fantasy that Sansa would never share with another, as she knew it wouldn’t be true.

( _Margaery was the only one that she could enjoy building a nest of furs and down pillows, as her omega fussed and readjusted, before inviting her in. Sansa knew then that her omega was breeding, and had purred as she never had before, before drawing her into her arms._

_“They’ll be safe here, won’t they, alpha?” Margaery preened, and Sansa had never wanted to agree to anything more. “Our pups – “_

_Anxiety tinged Margaery’s scent, as cloying and sweet as it was, and Sansa –_

_Sansa ached to soothe and delight her._

_“It’s perfect, sweetheart," Sansa told her before their tongues tangled, and hearts beat in tune. They made love there in the nest while cherishing the seed that had taken root inside her.)_

And if Margaery cherished her pregnant state because she knew it was her protection, her guarantee to stay by her queen’s side, she never hinted at it. She knew more than to, regardless of how stupid Littlefinger thought she was, for the Queen of the North had known enough heartbreak.

Sansa was quiet as she released her nipple before she moved to the other one. She never left her omega aching and panting for her touch, as she knew what she craved. She suckled from her, low, slurping noises filling the space between them; before she allowed her nipple to slip from her lips.

“Margaery?” Sansa whispered, glancing up toward her.

“What is it, my love?”

Sansa pressed a chaste kiss to her breast, before meeting her gaze once more. “We’ll marry in the Godswood,” she murmured, “just before our babe comes. The lords wouldn’t dare to make a move then – “

For they knew exactly what an alpha, deprived of their omega and their offspring, would do.

“Sansa – “

Margaery breathed, her pretty eyes widening.

For all that she hoped, and planned, her heart still skipped a beat. Sansa wasn't lying to her.

“You’ll be my consort, my mate,” Sansa said, the words as sweet and sinful as wild honey, on her tongue. It was everything that Margaery had dreamed of, and she felt pink stain her cheeks. “My everything, Margaery – “

“You already are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.carrd.co/ 🌹
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Kitsfics and MetalVenomLudens! Thank you for your help with this chapter, your comments helped shape it! I really appreciate it. 🦝🖤


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 1st...here's some smut for you! 🎁
> 
> I leaned toward skipping to the future with Margaery as Sansa's Consort and the nursery filled with their children. 🤍 (Can you imagine how lovely their children would be? They'd have the court wrapped around their finger for sure.) However, the thought of their wedding night wouldn't leave me alone (!!). I went through with writing it, and I hope that you guys enjoy it. 
> 
> Your comments have been so sweet and supportive, and I can't thank you guys enough for it. I have a few more chapters in mind for this story, as well as future femslash stories too...thank you all so much again! 🥂💖

Margaery basked in the warm water, her eyes fluttering closed.

Winter roses were woven throughout her curls, and her ivory-colored shift lay crumpled on the spring bank. There was no one else besides her there, in the hot springs that only the Queen used.

And now, her Consort.

Margaery hummed a sweet tune as she shifted, relishing the feel of the water. Her back continually ached, and there were times when she kept to her quarters with the slats closed over the windows, blocking light from the room, due to frequent headaches. Sansa often would lay with her then, resting her head on the curve of her stomach, or holding her mate close against her. There was a gentle side to their relationship then, one that neither had expected. Margaery found they were both eager for languid kisses and whispered words, and touches that were solely reserved for the privacy of their rooms. 

Still, there were times when they came together like the wolf and the maiden, with her alpha's claws unsheathed, and she found herself on her hands and her knees, begging for more - it turned at random, enough to make Margaery's head spin. As her body continued to change with her pregnant state, Margaery _vividly_ understood why countless japes were made of men never bearing more than one child, if they were able to bear children. There would only be an heir, never accompanied by a spare, then.

And there _would_ be a spare, Margaery knew, as her hands cupped the curve of her stomach. She knew that her alpha, her queen, desired a pack to scamper through the halls of Winterfell and live for the North, once more. Their children would resurrect the Stark line, displaying the hearts and souls of their ancestors, as if they were created by the songs of old.

Margaery giggled at that, as she and the whole of the court knew differently – _much_ differently. She and Sansa were rarely apart, and it was rarer still when they could keep their hands off one another. The morning prior a maid caught them in the hallway, with Margaery on her knees and Sansa’s hands tangled in her hair –

“ _I’m yours_ ,” Margaery often whispered, when her alpha fell asleep in her arms, with her cheek against her breast. “ _I’ll always be yours_ ,” no matter what she did to her, no matter what she asked of her. She would willingly play her alpha’s bitch, the same as she would her perfect lady.

There were times when Sansa took her breath away, with her greedy mouth and demanding touch, never allowing her to rest – Margaery reveled in ecstasy when Sansa kneaded her breasts and suckled from her, before delving down to the place between her legs. Sansa lapped at her dripping cunt without shame, with her arms curled around her omega’s legs, keeping her in place. Sansa could be demanding and cruel, the same as she could be lovely and kind, as she held her close after and rested her hand on the swell of her stomach.

“ _You’re everything to me, Margaery_.”

Her honesty drew Margaery closer, as she often reveled in the fact that Sansa was the most honest person she’d ever met. For all her courtesy – and no one could outmatch the Queen and her courtly armor – she never lied to Margaery, as Littlefinger and the whores she grew up with had.

The games that Sansa played with her were ones Margaery wanted to play; as she dashed throughout the quiet halls and squealed when Sansa caught her, or when she called Sansa to their rooms, and tempted her with her naked frame, with milk glistening on her chest, and her soft curves exposed. The latter was a game that Sansa nearly always lost, as she returned to her council without a hair out of place, and her expression serene, and her omega’s abandoned smallclothes stuffed into an inner pocket of her cloak.

Neither could resist the other, and Margaery found herself wishing they never would. She wanted what they had – she craved it, on a level that she had never believed could happen, nor even exist. The trust between them made everything sweeter, as Margaery found herself excited to go to her knees, and please her alpha, the only one that she had ever wanted to mate with. She found herself continually wet, slick dripping down her thighs and pink dusted on her cheeks, as wet dreams haunted her. Therefore, it wasn’t shame that she felt when the silly maid stumbled upon them, but deviant excitement. 

“ _See how I please our Queen_?” she wanted to purr, instead continuing to lick at the pulsing cock in her mouth, until the errant maid stuttered an apology, and stumbled away. Sansa choked on her mate’s name, before coming into her mouth; rivets of her seed trickling down her omega’s throat.

And afterward, they hid their smiles, knowing the maid scurried off to tell another, the lord who paid her, perhaps, or a stable hand that she was fond of. Gossip spread quickly throughout the court, as the old families were entwined with one another through marriages and hate, the same as they were through respect and trade. Every day that passed, Margaery heard the court grow louder, as her place became more assured.

Nor could the swell of her stomach be denied for much longer, as her alpha's handmaidens struggled with her laces, and received gentle nips when they steered Margaery toward looser, plainer gowns. She never wore something that hadn't been designed by her own hand or Sansa's and stayed away from colors she knew her alpha disliked; chiefly, red and gold, and anything with a high neckline. She wanted the court to see her as she was, and she’d taken to receiving courtiers wearing a shimmering nightgown, with a floral robe worn alongside it, and pearls entwined throughout her dark curls. It was a rare flaunting of her power, as Margaery inclined her head and welcomed those who came to see her, drawing a clear line between them.

She was never arrogant, no, she had little wish to remind Sansa of the golden-haired queen that haunted her nightmares. Nor did she want the courtiers to see her as less than a rose without thorns, for she knew the Queen as no one else did. For Sansa, Margaery willingly sank to her knees and took everything that she gave her – her loyalty and her love without falter. Yet Sansa was more than a queen, she was a woman too, one that ached for a family; one that she could cherish, and honor, and love. And Margaery knew that she could her queen, her alpha, her love the pups she desired, as well as unfaltering love.

Her grandmother would understand, Margaery mused, more than anyone could. Olenna was often described as the ‘Queen of Thorns,’ as every whore that Littlefinger had felt the sting of her words, and her honeyed manipulations. She had risen from an orphan clad in rags to a woman who could read and write and knew her figures well. Littlefinger relied on her as he never had another, and when Olenna saw a child on the street, one with pretty eyes and a sweet smile, he hadn’t said a word about her sudden _granddaughter_.

Nor had anyone else thought to protest, as Olenna raised her as if she were of gentle birth, a girl worth teaching facts and figures to, alongside her letters. She wasn't meant to work in the kitchens but in the brothel itself, where any woman with beauty or a silver tongue could find their place, their protection, their power. It was more than most girls born in the filth of Flea's Bottom had, or a girl born with a silver spoon, one who would be traded for the sake of a treaty, or familial name.

Her grandmother, for she’d never thought of Olenna as anything else, told Margaery that she could be more, she _would_ be more, and it was a lesson that she had never forgotten. Fate was not something to obey, but something to guide and persuade, as Margaery chose the way it pushed toward. Her life was her own, the same as Olenna had known.

Still –

The very title, _consort,_ took her breath away.

Her wedding was unlike anything she had ever dreamed of. There were no minstrels who sang of her beauty, nor were there men deep in their cups, with their cloaks abandoned and mirth in their eyes, as they remembered their wives. There were no grand feasts, with ravens sent after to announce the news throughout Westeros, as there had when Catelyn and Ned Stark married. There was no public ceremony, no hearty celebration –

There was only Sansa, the embodiment of the North and all that it stood for, who welcomed her amidst the Godswood. Margaery remembered the howling wind, and how it’d nipped at her skin; something that she struggled to adjust to, still. She was a child of the summer, a woman who adored the sun and its warmth, and there she was, marrying in the frigid cold with the full moon above.

Yet –

When Sansa stepped forth and wrapped her cloak about her shoulders while whispering the sacred vows in her ear –

How could it feel anything less than perfect? For Margaery felt as the wind changed then, rustling the leaves above them, instead of taunting their exposed skin. It grew still in the Godswood, as if it listened to Sansa, the same as it listened to every Stark before. Now, she was a Stark as well.

Perhaps that was why she hadn’t minded the ghosts there, as Sansa kissed her roughly. It was an open-mouthed kiss, one that led to her alpha slipping her tongue into her mouth and tangling her fingers through her hair. They shared the same dream come reality then, as they knew their vows would never be broken.

They couldn’t be, for they had something infinitely _more_ than all who had come to the Godswood before.

Sansa had taken her then, the same as if they were wolves in truth. She had pushed her against the tree and taken her with an intensity that she never had before, lavishing her neck, her breasts, and the apex of her curls with her tongue, and her teeth, and her fingers. She knew just how to touch her, just how to fuck her.

“ _Perfection_ ,” her alpha whispered, and she felt anointed by her praise.

Slick soaked through her smallclothes, something her alpha hadn't missed. Her touch turned languid and slow, the same as it was burning and swift, and took Margaery's breath away. It was the same as every time Margaery had lapped and sucked at Sansa's shaft while keeping her from release; slipping her cock from her mouth, every time Sansa neared release. It was loving and sweet, the same as it was decadent and cruel.

It was more than Margaery could take, as she begged her to stop teasing –

“ _Sansa_ ,” she’d keened, “ _Sansa, please –_ “

“ _Again_ – “

Sansa made her beg, knowing exactly what she needed.

They’d coupled with a frenzy they had never known, as Sansa ripped her skirts aside, desperate to fill her weeping cunt. Margaery hadn't felt the chill, then, as she came together with the Lady of Winter, the Queen who embodied the arctic winds and the falling snow, the wintery place that was now their home. Her body was for her to mark, hers to claim, and Sansa cried into the night, as she sank inside her.

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” Margaery begged, “ _You can’t stop, you can’t_ – “

She couldn’t be so cruel.

She needed her then, more than she ever had in her heats when all she could dream about was her release. She wanted more than her alpha's knot, and her roaming fingers; she wanted her heart, her soul as if Sansa could pour her very being inside her.

_“Mark me, make me yours!”_

It was all she had ever wanted, as her mating gland remained untouched.

She wanted her alpha’s brand, she wanted _Sansa’s_ brand –

She wanted everything that Sansa would give her, and everything that she wouldn’t, or couldn’t. She wanted everything of Sansa, something her alpha had always known. Margaery would have all of her or nothing of her at all; though the babe inside her entwined them together, in a way that no one could break, including themselves.

And Sansa, Sansa, Sansa –

She knew the stakes of the game they played, the stakes that came with lovemaking and setting politics aside. For Sansa whispered that she wanted Margaery for the rest of her days. “ _If you were a Targaryen intent on burning down the world or a Lannister with a lump of gold in place of your heart, I would love you still._ ” Sansa said, her voice as soft as the falling snow, “ _You’ll be the mother of my children, the mate at my side, and the only one who carries my favor_. _I will always love you, Margaery, I will always need you. Always, sweetheart_ – “

She’d gone willingly on to her hands and her knees, allowing Sansa to delve further inside her. She wanted everything that her alpha could give, as ecstasy pumped through her veins. She was safer than she’d ever been, as marked as she was by the gods above.

For when they came in tandem, Sansa leaned against her back and nuzzled her face against her neck. " _Mine_ ,” she’d murmured roughly. “ _You’ll always be mine, my love, my golden heart, the same as I’m yours._ “

And everything, everything became right when Sansa’s glistening canines sunk into her mating gland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me: https://januarywren.carrd.co/ 🌹
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Kitsfics and MetalVenomLudens! Thank you for your encouragement, you both are very sweet, and I appreciate it! 🦝🖤


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy with finals and creating pieces for zines, I'm happy to upload a new chapter for you guys to read! I hope that you're all staying safe and enjoying the holiday season. 🎁💖 
> 
> And as always, thank you for reading! 🤍

"Sansa?"

Margaery called, stepping into their study. The room connected to their bedroom, something that she had grown to appreciate, with how late Sansa worked, often taking care of things better left to a steward.

Her bare feet hardly made a sound as she crossed the stone floors, until she was next to Sansa, who was gazing out one of the windows that overlooked the courtyard. "Are you alright?" Margaery asked, watching as her mate withdrew from her thoughts. They were endless and dark, she knew, ones that Sansa would never share with her, regardless of how she wanted her to. Since the birth of their son, things had changed between them; fewer words shared between them, with every look and every touch saying far more, than ever before.

"Forgive me," Sansa murmured, pink tinging her cheeks. "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to disturb you."

They were sweet words, ones that Margaery knew better than to believe.

There were times when Margaery knew that her mate was far, far away in a place that she couldn't reach – it often happened when Sansa slid from their bed, and went to the Godswood or the empty, audience chamber, and remained there for hours, alone. She often had a lost look about her when she returned, as solemn and as sad a creature that Margaery had ever seen, as she gathered her alpha close and sang to her as if she were more than her mate, but her mother too.

And why shouldn't she be? Margaery wanted to be everything to her mate, to her queen, and more. She was born a greedy child, one that was hungry for everything the world could give her. The northern court fell quiet when Margaery was anointed as Sansa's consort, wearing a crown woven from indigo roses, and her fine robes left open, exposing her high waisted gown that worshipped her prominent curves.

She knew the Queen in the North as no other would, as Margaery wore her branded mark proudly. Her scent was entwined with Sansa's, and every alpha in their court knew it. Sansa's claim radiated from her; enhanced by the slick that trickled between her thighs, and the kisses that Sansa drew across her cheek.

Later, Margaery teased her mate as she remarked that half the castle heard their fucking, as servants skittered past their rooms, unable to ignore their shrieks of delight. As eager as Margaery was to submit to her lover, she adored when she could make her queen come undone, with Sansa moaning with every buck of her hips.

_"Use me,"_ Margaery urged, _"Mark me, take me, please – "_

She cherished every mark and every bruise.

_"I'm yours."_

Sansa often worshipped between her mate's legs; bringing her to ecstasy with her fingers and her tongue, and the knot that Margaery took so well. It was what she was made for as an omega, yet it satisfied a place inside her heart too, one that had always burned at Littlefinger's mocking gaze, and the assumption that she was only a _useless_ girl.

She never was, as she knew the worth of her designation and the tempting place between her legs.

Margaery was more than anyone save her grandmother could have ever dreamed she would become. She was the Queen's beloved mate, proclaimed consort, and for both titles, Margaery would willingly serve as her alpha's broodmare. There was incredible pleasure that came with it, as Sansa lapped at her breast and drew milk from her, drinking as if she loved her and was loved in turn.

( _She did, she did, she did_ -)

And it was love, for Margaery teased and taunted her mate to knot her mouth; as she suckled and lapped at Sansa's cock with the flat of her tongue, and felt her knot throb. It was something she had never done for another, pleasure riveting through her as Sansa fucked her face; her knot swelling inside her mouth while warm seed poured down her throat. There were times when it trickled from her lips, and Margaery spread it across her skin with her fingers, over her breasts and her stomach, and the apex of her curls. She wanted to cup it between her legs, bathing her cunt with it; only she knew that Sansa would replace her fingers with her own, taking her seed away.

They'd spent months like this after their son came, despite the dreams, they both entertained of Margaery swollen and carrying pups once more. One wasn't enough for either of them, as delighted with Cassian as they were. He was quiet and solemn as a babe, preferring to be held in his mother's arms instead of his wetnurse. Margaery often indulged him as she held him close and sang sweet songs from her childhood or bundled him in furs and took him to the glass gardens. Inside lay paradise, with lemon trees bearing fruit and winter roses in full bloom.

Nor was Sansa indifferent to him, as Margaery soon found. Her mate often held Cassian on her lap while she studied reports from her council and penned missives until ink-stained her hands or streaked across her cheek. She was the same as her father, with duty instilled in her heart and her soul.

(" _Never forget that the Starks live for the North_ ," Ned whispered in his daughter's ear, " _and the North alone, my heart_.")

Sansa remembered the words of her mother too, with courtesy as her armor, and her appearance too: she never looked less than elegant outside the privacy of their rooms, even while allowing their babe to chew on her finger, or clumsily tug at her braid. She indulged and adored him, and Margaery delighted in it, for she knew that their son was more than Sansa's heir, he was her beloved child too.

Their shared indulgence of their son continued, soon after Cassian attempted to crawl. His steps were unsteady, and more than once a servant watched as the Queen in the North knelt on the floor, coaxing her babe to her. The same could be said for her consort, as Margaery dressed in fine silks and lace, regardless of whether she bathed her son instead of his nurse or fed him his first bits of mushy food. They were devoted and besotted by Cassian, with his rounded cheeks and his dark hair, and the same Tully blue eyes that Sansa and her mother had.

He was their first-born, and the joy of the North, as the succession was secured –

How could his mothers ever not love him?

" _He reminds me of Robb_ ," Sansa confessed, after finding him asleep in their bed. He clutched the cuff she was embroidering close, while drool dripped down his chin. " _He was as wild as any dire wolf when he wished, but Father could never tell him no. He smiled like you_ ," she continued, her tone rueful – yet her gaze amused, as she glanced at her mate, " _as pretty as the sun, and Mother would cave almost as quickly as Father would_."

It was rare that Sansa said anything of her family, of the Starks that came before, and when she did, Margaery often called for the wetnurse to take Cassian from their rooms. She had the insatiable need to make her mate happy and often did so with a gentle touch and soothing word.

She knew the many parts that she played as a mate and a mother and as consort, wearing a different face each time she was in private, or on display. It was the same as Sansa with her many roles to play, yet Margaery wanted more, and more, and more – she always would.

"Do you think the world will be kind to him?" Sansa asked, and Margaery knew that she meant their son as he was often the subject of their conversations. "My father exemplified duty and honor and was killed for it."

Margaery worried her plump bottom lip. She would never lie to her mate, yet she had little fondness for the northerners' blunt ways. They never seemed to realize that truth came at a price, one that was far heavier than lies were.

_Still_ -

"How could it not be?" Margaery asked, in her deceptively flippant way. She had never dreamed as Sansa had, endlessly, and without reason; she'd never had a decadent childhood. "Cassian is a little lord in the making – he hasn't celebrated his second name day and you should see the way our attendants fawn over him. He'll be _insufferable_ before long."

She saw the curve of a smile on her mate's lips and pressed closer to her still.

"He's a Stark," Margaery continued, as she rested her cheek against her mate's shoulder. She liked the feel of the ermine that trimmed her mate's cloak, rubbing her face against it as if she were a kitten, as easily amused as she was indulged. "A wolf that was born in the North and will be raised here, where he belongs."

Sansa was silent a moment before her arm curled around her omega's waist. "I hope the gods will favor him," she murmured, "When I remember my time in King's Landing, I can never imagine our son there."

A wolf was never meant to be surrounded by lions, as the Queen in the North had learned. It was a lesson that she would never forget after the southern court attempted to devour her whole, and she had been beaten and abused for the sake of the North.

The northern lords hadn't ignored nor abandoned her then, as they threatened and clung to their word until they secured her release with the support of the Ironborn. Her body bore scars still, her back a mess of cuts and bruises that would never fully heal, though Sansa swore to her court that she would suffer anything for Winterfell, for the North, for her _home_.

The North would never kneel, and neither had she.

( _She wouldn't let her pain be for naught, she wouldn't let the deaths of her family be lost to the twisted history of the Lannisters; the mess of golden truth and hideous lies twisted into one account_ -)

She had left King's Landing behind her and encouraged the North to turn its gaze inward. Sansa knew, as every Stark before her, that the north would only last if it cared for itself before it cared about anyone else. It was a harsh kingdom and a harsher world still that Cassian was born into, and Sansa knew that he would never abandon his duty.

He couldn't – no Stark could.

Yet Sansa hoped, as any mother would, that he would find the world a safer place than she had.

"The gods already have favored him by his sex alone, my love," Margaery laughed, a rich and golden sound, "Cassian is your heir, or have you forgotten? He'll never have to leave the North – I imagine we'll have ravens arriving by the dozen soon enough, with every nobleman offering his daughter's hand. Cassian will break countless hearts through politics alone, sweet Sansa before he has a mate at his side, and a bundle of children at his feet."

It was an enchanting picture, one that Sansa wanted to embrace.

Only -

She would never admit – she _couldn't_ admit – that Cassian's future was the same that Robb had once been promised, the same that Bran and Rickon would surely have enjoyed in tandem, had they lived.

She never thought of her siblings nor her parents for long, as she heard their voices in the howling wind, and saw glimpses of them in the Godswood. The whole of Winterfell resonated with memories, ones that made her want to laugh, the same as she wanted to cry, with tears dripping from her cheeks and laughter rising to her lips.

She knew that she would have gone mad without Margaery and had never prayed more than when her mate gave birth to their babe with a midwife summoned from the Vale to assist her. She hadn't been able to think, let alone rule from the audience chamber while her mate labored. Sansa knew of more than one woman that had passed during labor, with their blood left to seep into the frigid grounds.

She wanted to be with her mate, holding her in her arms and brushing kisses across her brow; or anything, _anything_ that she could do to lessen her pain. It was the same as Sansa remembered her father doing, never leaving her mother's side during any birth.

It was unheard of for an alpha to stay with their mate during labor; yet neither her father nor Sansa cared what others thought, especially those in the South. Northerners lived as they loved, brutally, and without end. The dead were kept alive in their crypts and with every story, the living told, as they cherished any that came before.

And Sansa was no different, for she knew that she would be like Jenny of Oldstones if her mate passed. She would never forget and never forgive the gods for taking Margaery from her. She loved her mate as she never had another and longed for more than her ghost as Sansa ached for her honeyed laughter and the kisses that Margaery dusted along her collarbone.

" _Let me in_ ," Sansa wanted to cry, all while knowing she could force the chamber open, for who would deny her? Her Septa was left behind in King's Landing, with her head on a spike, the same as her father's had. Her Hand would never interfere in a matter like this, nor would her guards, or her council members that pressed near.

She was the Queen in the North and Winterfell was her home, every room in the keep soaked with her ancestors' thoughts and their words. No one would deny her, no one would even consider it - 

Only she _couldn't_ be there –

It was only the promise that Margaery had forced her to make – that she wouldn't enter the room – that kept Sansa from pushing half the court aside and barreling her way in.

No, she'd waited and waited, all while hearing her mate's cries –

Until she'd been summoned as if Margaery held her crown, and her title and she was allowed into their rooms. It was only Sansa's experiences in King's Landing that kept her still and upright, as she saw Margaery with her dark hair streaming about her as gloriously as any halo, and wearing a pretty, pink shift, as she nursed their newborn. It was the prettiest picture that Sansa had ever seen, one that she would _never_ forget, for as long as she lived.

"The Freys has already made inquiries," Sansa admitted, before giving way to laughter. Hers was quiet yet true, for she could never brood when her mate came near. There were countless thoughts Sansa would never share with her, countless words that she would never say, yet it mattered little when Margaery was there. She knew how to tease her and charm her in a hundred different ways, before Sansa felt as if she were truly alive and free to feel as she wished, once more.

It was the same relationship that Sansa wished for Cassian to have, as young as their son was. She knew he would inherit her burdens when he became King in the North, yet she wished for him to know her joy too; for she never felt happier than when Margaery was at her side and bending half the court to her will through charm alone. By the grace of the gods, Sansa hoped their son would see the world as it was while cherishing all that he could.

Margaery hummed a terribly gentle sound. "If Cassian took a Frey for a wife, the court would never look away from you," she said, "or myself. They would devour her alive before she said her vows."

A trussed-up Frey girl would never become the winter queen, as Sansa was often called. There, wearing nothing but her shift and a cloak around her shoulders, Margaery thought the title fitting, for Sansa, looked as distant and beautiful as the cold wind that lingered outside their door. It was only the pink on her cheeks, and the tussled braid that hung down her shoulder that made her seem real.

"How gracious of you to say," Sansa said, though there was little bite in her words. Instead, she pressed a kiss to her omega's temple, before realizing the chill that hung in the room. The fire had long since dwindled, leaving ashes in its wake, "my Lady."

Margaery returned her kiss, brushing her lips against the tip of her nose.

She was close enough to count the freckles that dusted Sansa's cheekbones, a sight that made her heart ache. Though her mate had the lineage of dire wolves in her veins, she was an innocent girl still, one that Margaery wanted to hide away from the world. ( _At least until dawn, if she could_ …)

"Come back to bed, my love," she whispered.

How could she resist her?

Sansa couldn't when Margaery tangled her fingers through hers and led her from the cold study to their bedroom where the fire crackled, and their bed was covered in thick furs, a place where love often spilled across the sheets. It was their favorite place, their private sanctuary where nothing changed. "Let me in," Margaery said, cupping her mate's cheek with their entwined hands. "Let me stay with you, my love." 

_Please_ , her touch said.

"I…I'll try," Sansa whispered, her earnestness as sweet and true as any song.

And she would, that night and the next and the next, until three moons had passed, and Sansa found her sweet mate could chase her nightmares away as nothing, and no one else could. She sang songs from their childhood and tangled her fingers in her hair until her omega pressed as close as she could, and bathed her with teasing nips and sweet, open-mouthed kisses. And with every touch, and every word, their promise warmed them like the sun above.

(" _I'll keep your heart safe, the same as you keep mine_.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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